Mortal Danger (10 page)

None of the keys on her key ring opened that lock. She had given them permission to force the door if necessary. They did, but whatever guns had been in that room were gone.

They took photographs of the crime scenes and gathered items that might serve as physical evidence later, bagging and initializing them.

At the hospital, Kate’s horrible night continued. The doctor who was called in to do a vaginal exam for the rape charges did that, but grudgingly.

“He treated me as if
I
was immoral, and he obviously resented being bothered. Although I asked him to look at my facial injuries and the contusions on my head, he wouldn’t do it. He actually told me to take two aspirin! He didn’t seem to care if I had a concussion or other injuries. There was a nurse there, but she had no experience at all with the rape kit, and I left there feeling even worse than when I went in.”

It is an attitude evinced by some physicians—fortunately fewer than in the past—and it makes women hesitant to report sexual attacks, particularly by someone they know.

Kate couldn’t go back to the cottage. She had no idea where John was, and she was frightened that he might come back to finish killing her. She believed there was one reason only that he wouldn’t return: He didn’t want to be arrested. Bill and Doris insisted that she move in with them until her father arrived to stay with her. The sheriff’s office ordered her not to go back to the cottage alone. They would provide an escort for fifteen minutes a day so she could go back and feed Mittens, who was in hiding, too.

Mittens was living in the bushes, smart enough to stay invisible, as if he knew that John might come back.

Oregon authorities moved swiftly. On June 1, 1999, two days after the attack on Kate—the first business day after the Memorial Day holiday—the Circuit Court of the State of Oregon, County of Curry, issued a warrant for John William Branden’s arrest. He was charged with four felonies and three misdemeanors: rape in the first degree, kidnap
ping in the first degree, attempted murder, attempted sodomy, menacing, and harassment.

His bail was set at one million dollars.

John’s name, aliases, and the warrant information were entered into the National Crime Information Center (NCIC).

Whatever trouble he might have fled from in Florida a dozen years earlier surely paled in comparison to what had just happened in Oregon. Or did it? Kate still didn’t know what had happened there.

But once again John Branden had escaped punishment, and Kate Jewell spent her days and nights wondering what he was planning next. She was afraid. More than that, she was angry. He had pushed her to the wall, to a place where she could either give up or fight back. And even though she was frightened, she chose to fight back: Curry County Detective Dave Gardiner was assigned principal responsibility on her case, and she knew he was doing everything he and his department could to find John. Sometimes, however, she felt that she was the only one who could locate him, and stop him from hurting her—or anyone else—ever again.

He had tried very hard to erase her from his life by erasing her from her own life. Scarily, it had always been Kate who’d left an outgoing message on their answering machine, but when she called her own number, she heard John’s voice asking callers to leave a message. How odd that he would have taken the time to change the settings after she’d fled from him in a panic. Then a chilling thought surfaced: Maybe he had planned to kill her as he built the bonfire and drank wine, and decided to put his voice on the
phone then, sure in his mind that she wouldn’t be alive after that night.

As she poured out food for Mittens, she saw the light blinking on the answering machine. She rewound the tape, and John’s voice filled the room.

“Kate, it’s me. I just wanted to let you know that your car is safe—unharmed—and I’d like to get your car to you, so let me know by leaving a message on my San Diego answering machine. I want to apologize and do whatever we need to do. Take care. Talk to you soon. ’Bye.”

He sounded so normal, as if the world hadn’t changed two days earlier. She didn’t call him; she was afraid he actually might come driving up in her car, although his sense of self-preservation would probably keep him from doing that.

Within a week, Kate’s father arrived from Arizona, and she could finally go back to the cottage.

She didn’t sense that John was anywhere nearby now. What would he do? Where would he go? She wondered if he might commit suicide, but she doubted it. He had told her she had ruined his life—that his life was over—but blaming her seemed to Kate to be nothing more than his tendency for high drama again. Her biggest fear was no longer for herself; she feared that he would hurt someone else, probably another woman.

She made up her mind to do her best to find him, to see that his out-of-control behavior could be stopped. Hopefully, it would take a combination of confinement and psychological treatment.

But where was he?

Dave Gardiner moved ahead with the investigation into John Branden’s attempt to kill Kate. Gardiner didn’t doubt that it had been a serious attempt, and that Kate would probably be dead if she hadn’t managed to escape.

With Paula Krogdahl present, Gardiner took a videotaped statement from Kate. Safe inside the sheriff’s office, with Paula and Gardiner beside her, she managed to recall the events of May 29 in detail. But, later, as they walked around the property where she and John Branden had lived for so many years, where she had come close to dying, the tension in her voice was obvious. Sergeant John Sevey, in uniform, sat in the same lawn chair in the same spot where John had waited for Kate that night. It was difficult to see the tall lawman sitting there and not see the ghost of John superimposed on him, but she blinked her eyes and John vanished. She and Gardiner walked from the lower part of the property, up the sandy path to the cottage, videotaping as they went.

It was clear that Kate’s mind was back in that night as she pointed out where John had hit her in the face, explaining now that the nerves to her front teeth had been severed by the blow. Her clothes had been torn off and left on the ground near the rhododendron, but they had disappeared, along with John. Her shoe, however, was still caught in its branches.

“Maybe the raccoons took my clothes away,” she murmured faintly. More likely, John had taken them with him when he’d left, perhaps to hide the blood staining them.

As Kate and Dave Gardiner entered the house, she shuddered. Nothing had changed. The knife used to keep her from resisting was missing from the butcher block; the others were all in place. John’s clothes from that night—black sweatpants and a green sweatshirt—were gone. The guns that he had once kept in his hiding place were gone. She couldn’t be sure how many he’d secreted there. She wasn’t an expert on guns, but she had seen so many: a Colt .45, Smith & Wesson .38, an AK-47, some long guns that she couldn’t identify. John liked guns.

There were phantom presences in the rooms now—Kate and John as they had been in their final night together. At least Kate devoutly hoped it had been their final night.

She had a little money, but she had no job. She had no place to live. She feared that he was out there somewhere within a few hundred miles, able to get to Gold Beach in a few hours if he chose to, stalking her or planning how he could follow her every move. It wouldn’t be just a matter of her finding a little house or an apartment somewhere; she would have to relocate someplace where John wouldn’t be able to find her. She could go back to American Airlines, and she would. But would the airline be able to hide her from John?

She had to find him, because he was terribly dangerous while he was loose. At the same time, she had to be sure he wouldn’t find her.

It seemed impossible.

Kate wasn’t surprised
when she saw the envelope in her post office box. She recognized John’s handwriting on the envelope at once—large printing with a Sharpie pen. It was postmarked in a small town in Oregon, but she knew he wouldn’t be there. He was never in the places where his letters came from, especially when he was in trouble. She recalled how he’d had her sister mail letters for him from Sarasota during the Lakhvir trial. The date on this letter was stamped “June 9, 1999.” She wondered who he’d persuaded to send it on for him.

Kate sighed. It was still all about him, and he didn’t have the faintest idea what love was. How could he possibly expect her to feel safe? She wondered what he wanted from her—probably a way out of the trouble he was in.
He
was scared.
He
wanted time to put his affairs in order. And
he
, as always, was trying to make her feel guilty.

But his manipulations didn’t work any longer—not with Kate.

She tried to think where he might be. Since John had emphasized in his letter that he was in Oregon, Kate was sure he
wasn’t
there. She knew he would be working frenetically to protect himself and to avoid arrest. She guessed that he was probably in California, heading south. He might be trying to get into Mexico. It was unlikely that he’d go north. As far as she knew, he didn’t have any contacts in Washington, and it would probably be more diffi
cult for him to get across the Canadian border than to slip into Mexico, even though he had his ever-present assortment of driver’s licenses in different names. There was a “stolen” bulletin out on her car, and she was working with Dave Gardiner to bring the FBI into the search for John. There was every possibility that he had crossed state lines by now.

Kate and her father had gone to pick up an extra-strong cell phone from the sheriff’s office (ordinary cell phone signals didn’t penetrate the Gold Beach area) when they spotted her car. Her 1999 Suzuki Grand Vitara was parked in the Fred Meyer store lot, right behind the sheriff’s office. There was no way to tell how long it had been there.

Had John had a pang of conscience, or was he afraid of being stopped in a stolen car? Whichever it was, she was happy to have her new car back.

She doubted that John had much money, and the only vehicle he’d had in Oregon besides hers was a 1971 Ford pickup truck that had once belonged to his father. It was virtually undrivable and it was still parked at the cottage. Somehow, he must have made his way out of town, possibly even by hitchhiking, although that or a bus ride would have been iffy with the dragnet of deputies and state police looking for him.

John’s daughters were in the San Diego area, and his best friend—Stanley Szabo, the dentist who had lived in Kate’s condo so long ago—was in Florida. Kate tried to figure out who would be most likely—and most able—to help him continue his escape. His older daughter, Tamara, had always backed John up. Even if what he was doing was illegal or morally wrong, Tamara covered for him.
Kate was quite sure Tamara would be first on the list of all the people he would run to.

She had lost touch with Dr. Szabo and didn’t know exactly where he was. John had helped Stan out when Stan had been struggling back from an expensive divorce, and she thought he might help John,
if
John could even find him. “Stan used to sigh and say, ‘He who has the money can pull the strings,’” Kate said, “and back in the days at Solana Beach, it was John who had the money, and he did help Stan.”

But Kate felt that Tamara Branden was the most likely to protect the father she idolized. Kate sent an article to Tamara about John’s spate of violence. It had appeared in the
Curry Coastal Pilot
and was entitled “Man Sought in Rape Case.” She followed it up in mid-June with a phone call. She couldn’t get through to Tamara, but she did speak with Dan,* Tamara’s fiancé.

It was an oddly stilted discussion, during which she sensed that Dan was choosing his words very carefully. He complained that they’d had to move all of John’s “crap” out of his apartment near San Diego and turn off his phone there. That proved to Kate that John had been in touch with them.

Kate explained that John had begun to send questions and “demands” to her through his psychologist, Charlie, and Dan seemed quite aware of that. He didn’t come right out and say it, but he admitted that he had sent a big duffel bag full of John’s possessions to Oregon.

She hoped that wasn’t true, but she said nothing. She knew in her gut that John wasn’t in Oregon, but that gave her faint comfort. She and her father were packing her be
longings, but she still didn’t know where she was going, and it would be weeks before she could wind up her affairs in Gold Beach. It was so hard to stop in the middle of life and completely change direction. She thanked God for her dad, who promised to stay with her until she moved.

The big questions in Kate’s mind were how John was managing to stay hidden and who was giving him money.

“Is Tamara concerned about where her father is?” Kate asked Dan.

“No,” he said too forcefully. “She’s pissed as hell. Heather’s about ready to write him off, too. She’s like, ‘If I get a call, I’m real seriously thinking I never want to talk to him again.’ Tamara’s not quite that extreme, but, ahhh, we’re all
extremely angry.
Kate, I would say that you’re the most sympathetic ear he has.”

She didn’t respond to that.

In the next breath, John’s son-in-law-to-be surmised that the next time John tried to kill Kate, he would succeed. He agreed that John was probably in dire need of psychiatric help, but Kate almost felt that Tamara was standing nearby, telling him what to say. Still, Dan muttered that it might be better for everyone if John killed himself.

Maybe he meant it. He seemed sincerely annoyed with all the upheaval in his and Tamara’s life because of John.

Kate suggested her theory that John had found someone within a 450-mile radius and had charmed them or made them feel sorry for him. “I think it’s someone you guys know; it’s not a business acquaintance,” she added.

“Someone’s gotta be taking care of him, all right,” Dan agreed.

“I think he’s always expected a lot of Tamara,” Kate said, but Dan wouldn’t bite on that.

“Well, he’s going to be disappointed,” he said. “I don’t know what he’s doing or who’s giving him advice, but, as usual, he’s making a bad situation worse.”

Dan said he didn’t know why John and Sue and their daughters had left Florida more than a decade earlier, but he thought John had stayed in hiding for a year, and that everything they’d owned had been put in Sue’s name then.

He danced on the edge of confiding in Kate—if indeed he knew anything. Kate repeated that John had probably charmed someone just to keep a roof over his head. “I would figure he’d head to Stanley Szabo,” she said. “The other thing would be Mexico, but if he did that, he must not be planning on coming back. I can’t imagine that, as racist as he is, but I guess it’s a possibility.”

“I don’t know how he would get to Mexico—we have his Hyundai, and it’s not even running,” Dan replied. Then he stressed that he and Tamara were leaving for Alaska in three days, and that he was happy to “get away from this mess.”

“If you feel as if Tamara’s not saying something—”

“Yep,” he said, which didn’t answer her question at all. “Yep. Yep.”

Kate urged Dan to have Tamara call Dave Gardiner in Curry County, but Kate knew Tamara wouldn’t. She was positive that Tamara knew where her father was, that she was probably helping him stay free. His daughter thought John was a saint, and loved him, Kate thought, but he was a loaded gun out there. Who knew how many people would
die before he was captured? Didn’t Tamara know that in this case blood shouldn’t be thicker than water?

Apparently not.

“Well,” Dan said, “you have a pleasant evening.”

The line went dead as Kate thought,
How weird!
It would be a very long time before she would have a pleasant evening.

Kate suggested to Dave Gardiner that he check the passenger list for the Holland America cruise scheduled to leave Portland, Oregon, for Alaska on June 18. John’s name—or any of the fake names he was known to use—wasn’t on the manifest.

On June 29, exactly one month after John’s attempt to kill Kate, David Terry, an ACLU attorney, called her to say that John had contacted his agency. Terry had approached the Curry County district attorney’s office to feel them out. If John turned himself in, could he count on a plea bargain that would net him far less time behind bars than the three or four hundred months the charges against him called for? They weren’t enthusiastic.

“He’s very, very scared,” Terry told Kate, “and given the position of the DA’s office, he has reason to be.”

“So I’ve been told,” Kate said without expression.

Would Kate intercede with the prosecution to help John get a more humane resolution to his case? Terry asked. She didn’t know; all Kate wanted was to have John locked away someplace where he wouldn’t do any more harm. She wanted to be able to walk free without constantly glancing over her shoulder, or waking to the smallest rustle in the night.

John’s temporary attorney said he realized that John had been deluding himself about the way he’d treated Kate.

“He minimizes—,” she began.

“Oh…hugely.” It didn’t take anyone long to see how manipulative John could be, and the depth of his need for absolute control. Kate herself had been so caught up in keeping some vestige of peace that she hadn’t realized how tightly John had trapped her in his power over her.

Even though she never wanted him back in
her
life, Kate still hoped that he would get some kind of psychological treatment, albeit in prison. She asked Terry if he had a way to contact John, and there was a long pause on the line.

“If I did, I would not be at liberty to share that with you, because that would be a confidential communication….” Terry then reminded her that at the very minimum John faced twenty years in prison. “My personal observation is that he’s continuing his abuse of you by doing what he’s doing—”

She sighed. “Some things never end. I’d like my life back, and I’m doing the best I can to take it back.”

“You’re familiar enough with therapy and with self-empowerment to know that you are the person who is going to do the heavy lifting there.”

“Yep,” she said wearily. “And I’m in the process.”

She promised to call Terry if she had any questions or wanted a message passed on to John. But she had no messages to pass on—unless she could make herself believe that John had the capacity to feel regret for what he had done, and, even harder, make herself believe that he wanted
to change, to get better, and think of someone other than himself.

Kate concentrated on who might be inclined to help John stay free of arrest. Tamara, of course, but her fiancé, Dan, not as likely. She talked to John’s dentist friend, Stan Szabo, and hung up with the feeling that Stan knew where he was, and that he, too, was protecting John.

Sometimes, it seemed to be a conspiracy of silence.

Tamara and Dan were practicing Buddhists and therefore against violence of any kind. She wondered why they were helping John hide when
she
was the victim of his rage, both emotional and physical.

She thought about whom she and John had been in frequent contact with in the past year. They had been close to Bill and Doris, of course, but John wouldn’t contact them because they were helping her. Then Kate recalled the young woman with a practice in Napa, California, whom John had taught to do blood screenings. She hadn’t sent any reports since the end of May, nor had she called. With all that had happened, Kate had almost forgotten about her.

Napa was in wine country, about twenty-five miles north of Oakland, and some three hundred and forty miles from Gold Beach. Suddenly, Kate felt the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up:
John was hiding in the Crichtons’ house in Napa
. She was so sure he was there that she accepted it even before she called Bonnie Crichton. When she did, Bonnie’s voice was wary, flat; and Kate visualized John standing there next to her, telling her what to say.

He must have convinced Bonnie and her husband, Joe, that he’d been falsely accused. Then he’d preyed on their sympathies. He was so skilled at playing that part.

As soon as she hung up, Kate called Dave Gardiner. “Don’t ask me how, but I know where he is. John’s in Napa, California, with some people named Crichton….”

Kate gave Gardiner the address, and he immediately called deputies in Napa County. It was mid-June, and no one had reported seeing John for more than two weeks. Joe Crichton answered the door. When he saw the uniformed officers, he turned aside and said something quietly to one of his children.

“He told him to warn John,” Kate recalled. “And he did, and John took off running out a back door.”

The dogs the deputies had with them weren’t search dogs; they were trained to follow a moving target at their master’s commands. John had a good head start on them. They circled the yard, looking for a scent. When they finally had it, they stopped in confusion at a fire road, surrounded on all sides by acres of grapevines.